Father figure
by Noondarkly
Summary: His skin was callous and the stubble at least four days old, but his eyes were full of positive energy, something she had not seen in him for a mighty long time. HouseCameron. Final chapter up. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

She is folding up her blue shirt and putting it away on top of her favourite pile. The pile that has all of what she likes to wear best, for special occasions. They are not fancy items, only pieces of clothing given to her by friends, or her mom. Also, that slick black lacy thing… how he used to like it on her until his consciousness lasted. She never wore it again.

She will probably not wear the blue thing again.

Lampshade the shape of a star shedding soft terracotta splendour to the otherwise blank walls, and comfortable settee make her living-room welcoming at all times. She needs the homey comfort of familiar objects to warm her after each day spent at the hospital. She likes her work. She does. She is also good at it. But there is just too much pain and the constant presence of death. Despite what she shows, it sometimes throws her into the deepest pit of desperation she has ever known, including the time she had to bury a husband.

The book is so uninteresting. Night crawlers and spectres gather up outside the building for their nightly assault on the unsuspecting realm of the living. She does not have to look, she knows they are there. She doesn't fear them, not since they took him away from her. She knows there is a passing for everyone, and whoever is left to live is left for a purpose. She does her best to look for her own private purpose, but in the ruckus of events happening to her, and her thoughts that she can't control any longer, she is unable to perceive the reason. Used to think it was him. Maybe it was him. After all, she made his last days tolerable. She almost died in the process herself, but that was probably the price she had to pay for it. Almost inaudible whisper outside makes her turn her head and stare blankly at the glass: threshold to the other world, she used to think way, way back, when only a fledgling of a woman, Allie.

She puts the book aside, realizing she will not read tonight. Her lips recall his taste, slightly acrid, with a wisp of not yet admitted longing. His arms, eventually around her, had almost made her faint with desire. She had sucked as much as she could out of him, trying to keep him within herself. Weeks separate her from that precious moment, but she senses everything as clearly as if she had frozen time. He had been hers then, and she will cherish his memory, facing him day by day at work, trying to regain composure each time after turning back on him. He had called her back to the hospital, yes. But he is as distant as ever. Impenetrable, sarcastic, typically himself. She acts normal, even happy at times; she had learnt the trade when her husband was dying. How ironic: she never thought she would use those skills again.

Book in her lap, soft music playing, she dozes off. She is almost there. Her limbs are numb, tingling with the long-awaited numbness of sleep. Thoughts chase each other inside her head, real memories, craved memories never come true, fears, bizarre conversations. She directs her half-dream toward peaceful, serene happiness with him; after that, wild fight leading to animal carnality; his smile, his frown, his hand, his scar, his sneakers, his cane twirling in his deft hand, his eyes, his eyes, his eyes the look on his face seeing her with a cup of tea when she gave him the present he says yes do you like me house I need to know yes yes yes

Moth flies into the illusory light and falls dead, scorched by bliss, unaware of the tiny female body, which reposes unconscious in illusory oblivion. The night drapes everything, endless life stirring everywhere, minute corpse under the lamp, small human entity and all, with resolute obscurity.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I forgot to mention that this is happening after _Nothing changes_.

Okay, so I'm a sucker for the whole craving business- I think the show is based on making us suffer, not getting the two of them together, only hinting at possibilities. Let's face it: life works like that too- a dream is only a dream until it comes true… Then, it turns into something else.

So, I am intent on making anyone who reads this, suffer. (I hope it won't be because of the badness of the writing LOL.) Reviews are welcome, and thanks for reading!

Cuddy's voice rings in his ears and he sees her in front of him, slender, firm in attitude as always, relentless about paperwork and his neglected duties. After one or two remarks on her cleavage she finally leaves him alone. But just as he starts reveling in the solitude, Wilson bursts in.

-I don't care who's dying, I don't care what I didn't do, I don't care if you screwed someone and she left you –House says, not even looking up.

-I know you don't, but Cuddy is furious. She had to let go of a fairly large sum of money for your sake. That means nothing to you?

-So what? Money comes, money goes. I'll save some daddy's little girl next week and he will donate.

Wilson sits down facing him, arranging his medical gown. House snorts in contempt and swirls around in his chair to face the window. No sunlight comes in. It is his choice. But he likes the idea that he can change that whenever he wants to.

-What is it this time? Out of Vicodin? Out of booze? Someone was smarter than you? Or, Stacey? She's not even working here yet. If you're already suffering, we better find you a good mental course or a… mantra for how to ignore an ex-flame.

Stacey had not been on his mind for fifteen hours, a marvel in itself. His fingers trifle with his cane, a familiar action that never fails to switch off some of the stuff he doesn't like. She had been as transparent that day as a glass leaf about to fall from a winter tree. He had fooled himself that evening that he did not care if she left. Bollocks. He was pissed off for weeks, though of course, he let no one see. How dare she leave just like that? Imposing on him from the distance, forcing him to choose some ignorant imbecile for the team. His authority was badly damaged, and it seemed now that she was beyond caring.

-…House? House.

He is not trained in matters of the heart. He had lost it all when Stacey left him wallow in his despair with one leg. An occasional hooker to alleviate the pain in his groin was just about enough: no feelings, just the pure delight of him exploding inside a warm body. She, on the other hand, loves him. Apparently. For whatever reason. He is not stupid: he told her all that crap only to keep her away. Why hurt someone else, and himself, why go through the misery of uncertain emotions, and when they lead to something tangible, having to relinquish it all, again?

-How do you do it?

-Do what? –asks Wilson, startled.

-How do you take the same path, all over again, and again, and again?

-Meaning…?

He turns to face his friend.

-I will soon lose track of your divorces and ex-wives. How can you put your trust into somebody different, again and again?

-I'm a trusting person. Plus, an idiot –shrugs Wilson.

-I figured that much.

-Is this about Stacey? –asks Wilson, leaning forward. He gets no answer, only more twiddling with the cane. –You have to give her up, House. She is married, and happily so.

-That's that, then –House says, suddenly smartening up and looking at Wilson. He gets up and limps off into the hall, leaving an all puzzled Wilson behind.

She is there with a patient, telling her that her baby is about to die and they can't do anything about it. He only sees her velvety hair flow down on her clean white gown, but he knows her face by heart: compassionate eyes brimming with honest emotion, perfect little mouth slightly turning downward with sympathy, immaculate skin, her whole face shiny with her unmistakable saintly aura. The woman starts weeping and Cameron puts her hand on her arm. Then she leaves her sit in the hall and turns back, seeing him watch her. She is honestly sad and for a moment looks at him, then hangs her head down and walks past him.

Poring over some files is Allison Cameron, petite and fragile. He enters the office and she continues doing whatever she was doing. He goes to get his cup from the desk and has to slightly lean across her: his shirt brushes her hair and she winces for a microsecond. He watches her pressed lips. Not a quiver. Her breast is lifting with the gown, life seeping through her, not stopping, not giving up. He is obstinate enough not to admit that it pisses him off badly. He hobbles to the coffee machine and curses when nothing comes into his cup.

-I'm sorry, I didn't notice it was empty. Here, I'll make some.

She is there within a breath's time, gently ushering him away and with deft femininity prepares his coffee. Her scent is inebriating: soft, gentle, hardly a scent, no perfume except the shampoo in her hair, her skin beaming with warmth and safety. He lingers clumsily, hovering over his cane and her minute body. The craving to feel her clinging to him is slowly getting out of control, he can only think of him holding her, drinking her in, despite his reasonable self, when she turns to him and hands him his cup.

-Here.

Her heart races with inhuman speed feeling him so close to her. Does he wonder about me? What is he thinking of? Why don't I just ask? She knows she can't take it too much longer, but she had made a fool of herself already. She needs that small touch of dignity to manage working with him every day. Apparently he is composed and only watches her with that all too familiar, penetrating glance, eager to perceive all there is in the world. She knows he is curious by nature and dares not persuade herself there is anything else behind it.

She looks after him walking out of the office, her glance glued to his slightly stooped shoulders. He is vulnerable, yet she sees him as strong and incredibly masculine but could never admit this to him. He would sneer at her weakness for his arm and muscular thighs, his wrist and supple fingers. When they are not solving a case, she sometimes watches his every move: he is like a wounded panther, hindered in his movement, yet still preserving a lot of his nimbleness and flexibility. She sometimes imagines him without his cane, healthy and powerful. Just the idea of a _whole_ House makes her breathing faster.

She bites her lip and returns to her work. She can't do more for now.


	3. Chapter 3

I have to admit this story popped out of me when I heard a song yesterday, one of my favourite songs, such a brilliant song, so loaded with feelings and possibilities, and that's when I thought of leaving off from there, since House is himself loaded with possibilities, there is so much that can happen, I simply can't let it all go to waste (giggle). For those of you who like the suffering stuff, I will give you enough of it to make you weak in the knees for weeks LOL. Thanks for reading!

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A week. Seven days since Stacey started work at the hospital. He finds it weird that he had not once felt any uncertainty around her. He had been so desperately wounded when he first heard the news of her returning to his life. What the hell messed his brain up so much?

He is sitting at his desk, tired, bored, unconcerned about mundane things. He had made a slight mistake, wrong meds dosage, Foreman had to correct him with a curious eye. House let it be, and just walked out of their sight. Sometimes exhaustion took over and old cares were like stale bread, better thrown away.

Evening falls and finds him alone, still at his desk, feet propped up, TV set showing nothing but static. She had not talked to him in days now. Even when he had provoked her about her hair not matching a doctor, she had only looked at him and then walked out. He is wondering if it is some game she is playing; if she is ignoring him to piss him off. House is a grown-up kid, he needs the reaction from the ones he played his pranks on. She had not given him any for a long enough time, and he is getting slightly irritated.

She looks at her pager and instantly puts the flask down. Calibrating can wait, he never calls for nothing. Night beckons her through the windows in the hall. She walks briskly, feeling her heart beat faster, but she still has time to look out and bond with the strange, imaginary beasts of her mind. Help me here, she pleads. Alone is what I am no good at any longer, and he is so stubborn.

He sits in the twilight, only an outline of muscle and endless willpower, flesh and weakness. Without the pen in his hand, without his eyes all clouded with cures for unknown illnesses and his professional mind at work, she senses he is at a loss. She knows he has not called her because of work; they have helped her, as they always do, black legions of butterflies inside her, making her instinct more powerful than that of an average woman. At night, always at night is when she is at her peak.

He sees her, unknown figure in the dark, slim and protective, which is funny, because he feels like an elephant next to her, the gazelle. Big and protruding and bumping into her delicacy, not able to fondle her and touch her gently. Being near her is getting more and more of a mental and emotional pain. He wants her, but not like he had wanted Stacey. Not just body and soul. He can't even explain to himself. He sits and watches her in silent pain and rapture, wishing he had the guts to say something. Anything.

-I'm here- she says. She stands in the door, light behind her giving her a thin silhouette of sheen, making it impossible for him to discern any of her face. Her voice is blurred and soft, a bit raucous, and he feels more aroused than he has been for a hell of a long time. If only he could stand up like a man, grab her and make her his own, make her dizzy, make her pant, make her grab him and not want to let go of him ever. If only he were the man he used to be.

But he is House. A cripple, a big mouth when it's about others, but scared to sickly death of his own shadow, his emotions, the possibility that he might deserve a life like everyone else.

The silence is broken by the painful sound of a child laughing in the street, or in a patient's room somewhere near. It crawls inside his room, claims the empty territory between him and her, shakes them both, fearful adults, leaves them struck by their dread. He remembers, he tries to remember- was he ever like that? How did he, how do we all lose the capacity to accept, to marvel at things, to embrace the world and allow it all to seep through us, without a fear, without a wish, just _giving_ without any reason or thinking? He is ashamed for the whole of mankind of which he is part of and stoops his head.

She knows he is afraid. She knows she cannot take that step for him. He must be the one to do it, even if it kills him. She senses that he wants her terribly and it almost destroys her resolution to be strong. Just three steps, three little steps to reach his feet, four steps to his hands folded in his lap, with the cane under them. Five steps to his bowed head, and she could stroke his hair. She could lean over his wistful eyes, luminescent in the night, loaded with his lust for her. She could take his head between her hands, she could kiss him and claim him forever. He would not have the power to resist her this time.

When he looks up, she is not there any more. Instant pain takes possession of his inside, the feeling of loss, a whisper of could have been mingled with the shout of finiteness. His door is left ajar, and if he squints, he can still see her suave figure standing there, blocking the light.


	4. Chapter 4

Walking alone in the dark, aligning each step with the moonlight on the pavement. He dreams of walking, on two legs, without a cane, only two healthy legs and him. Persuaded by his fears that dreaming is dangerous, he only dreams when he sleeps. In the daytime he is rational, brilliant, sarcastic and reasonable, probing people for illnesses and pinpointing the roots and reasons. What he can't have he searches to trace in others: tenderness, total trust in someone, belief in another human being, hope that some day it will all get better.

A bat flies by and grazes his face with the wind from its wings. Abandoning himself to the night, he walks on. Trees, those nightly watchmen with ghostly limbs reaching for the good and bad alike, silver dust paving the straight road, these are his only companions. No sound in his ears, no feeling in his heart, only endless tranquility. What he leaves behind can hurt him no more; yesterday's pain is absorbed by the calm presence of certitude. He knows where he is, he knows what he wants. Fear does not exist, as he strolls serenely closer and closer to his goal, the yet unknown, the blissfully unshaped reality.

Waking up, he finds his teeth are rattling in the cold. When he pulls the blanket up from the floor the pain in his leg makes his breathing stop for a second. He wipes his sweaty forehead, then reaches for his pills, deliberately placed next to his bed on the night stool. Swallowing one he leans back, waiting for the sweet deliverance. He remembers the land of never to be, what he had and will never have again. At times he wonders why the affliction, why the fact that he is ruined physically and emotionally. He does not believe in fate, let alone an almighty god, so destiny as such is a non-existant abstraction, never to be conjured up in cases of hopelessness, where no one can be blamed. There is always someone to blame. Things happen because people make them happen. He racks his mind, struggles to find the original scapegoat he can lay the blame on. Eventually he always ends up thinking he is the one culpable for his own misery. Blaming Stacey, or Cuddy, or Wilson, or his father for his genes, or the mad constellation of all of this doesn't make his situation any more pleasurable.

Dawn is approaching, lugging a new day in its heavy sunrise-luggage. House is thinking: coffee, toilet, shower on one leg, dragging himself to work, buying new pills, facing the day with all of its minute, irritating details. And she won't be there. Day off. He has no idea how he will survive the day.

Cameron shuffles into her bathroom, half asleep. Her hair is a mess, her eyes baggy from the double shift, her skin has gotten slightly saggy and dry. No wonder he doesn't like me, she thinks. Yawning, she remembers he had requested a day off from Cuddy. For what purpose, she has no idea. As far as anyone knows in the department, he doesn't have a life, so why any time off work? Well, maybe he wants to rest. Or call someone. A woman to entertain him. From his past jokes she knows he is not shy and she also understands his needs. She combs her hair, pulling it into a tight pony-tail. She cannot help it, her mind is already dwelling on the grievous and yet exhilarating image of House lying in bed, a woman on top of him, slowly moving and giving him spasms of delight. She dissects the scene, she relishes the sight of his face, the rapture in his eyes, the moan filling his lungs and shaping his mouth, desire overwhelming him, his hands encircling her naked hips, pressing her closer to his own body, his powerful frame lifting them both to higher pitches of pleasure. Before she realizes that it is herself she sees making love to him, she succumbs to the desire that gets out of control: she leans to the wall and her hand substitutes for all the things she wants so dearly. Her orgasm is quick and painfully lacking real fulfilment, and then she stands there, panting, with shaking knees, and wonders if she is becoming ridiculous. Then, remembering the day, the work, at least twelve hours without seeing him, she sobers up and starts choosing her clothes, the layers of concealment that keep most of her to herself, lest someone should take advantage.


	5. Chapter 5

**Ok, I know, not much happening. Not much happening really. But I have to say I have always liked to look behind the surface and deal with whatever is not said or done. House is just such a perfect character to write about, he is so round and tangible, yet always surprising. He might do just anything, ya know. wink Thanks for reading, and for the reviews! PS I apologize for the shortness of the chapters… PPS I don't own anyone in the story. (DUH.)**

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When she leaves him alone in the dark, she can almost hear his sigh following her into the lab, like a trail of unconscious longing, a cloud of unspoken desire and surrender. His presence lingering around makes her feel safe and dizzy. She finishes the calibration, marks down everything meticulously, and for a brief ten minutes or so she forgets all about him. But when she shuts the lab, he is back inside her head again. She doesn't have to see him in the flesh, she can envisage his tall, slightly stooping figure, the slender fingers toying with his cane, the sarcastic expression that is his trademark, and that, in a weird way, gives her immense supplies of stamina and resoluteness. Her mornings, uncertain beginnings that used to burn into her heart, are now rich in the knowledge that he is there, Gregory House, MD, mature man, sometimes a child, extremely obstinate and abrasive person, occasionally a dear. And she loves him. She has known it for a while now; beyond physical desire at the sight of his muscular arms or incredibly blue eyes, she loves the man, the faults, the weaknesses, the dreams, the lost hopes. She wishes she could endear herself to him. If only he saw beyond her looks. If only he could believe that she can love him for who he is. But for now, he is too lost in the maze of his deceitfulness and long buried emotions. She knows it will take a long time to make him let her in.

Night has taken full control by now; the building is quiet, but for the occasionally passing nurses and the few doctors in charge there is no one in the hospital. Cameron ambles thoughtfully without any reason, takes a peek here and there, greets this person and that, remembers faces, thinks about her work, ponders about cases and cures. Life with its unexpected twists and corroded moments of bliss takes over inside her head. Regrets and joy mingle in that flow of self-evidence, which she has come to accept, and even embrace, at a very early age. Her soft-spoken nature and almost innocent look have fooled many people, but deep inside, Allison Cameron is strong, willful if needed, and surprisingly aware of the world around her. Death makes her cringe, but she knows it is a must, the essential end to everything. Where there's a beginning, there's always an end. Seeing a dying patient will always make her shiver, but she has learnt to accept that. It is only when she holds the hand of a little child, stricken with a terminal illness, that Cameron starts questioning the purpose of it all, and at night, she lies awake sleepless, confused and bitter.

Her headache returns with a vengeance after the pills she had taken in the afternoon. There is no explanation to it, but she refuses to get alarmed. She knows her helter-skelter ways of eating are not the healthiest, but her appetite has also been acting up. In fact, she doesn't remember what her lunch, or breakfast had been that day. Reprimanding herself, she makes a mental note of sticking to daily routines from now on. But for now, another pill will do. Or, maybe more.

Several times he has fiddled with his pager, deciding to call her, then deciding against it. He feels like a fool, like a wuss, and he thanks his luck that Wilson had left hours ago, or he would have most probably discovered his friend alone in the dark, and would have started enquiring, first cautiously, then more boldly, and then, like a hound, would have sniffed it all out, as usual, and House would have never been able to wash that complacent smirk off his face.

Behind his closed shutters he can see the moon sprinkle her silvery sheen onto the world. He gets up with difficulty and limping to the window, lets the light fill his office. The moon is large and almost scary, her pale face dabbed with gory orange, silently residing over the city. He contemplates the strange object in the sky, suddenly wondering at the bizarre and yet perfectly understandable way the universe is made. He knows a lot of things; he knows how to heal dying people. His knowledge saves lives. A lot of people would be happy with half of what he knows. If only he knew what to do about his more petty affairs. Such as, Cameron.

It is late, but he doesn't want to go home. Unlike on other evenings, the thought of tv and a bottle of scotch, some piano playing and Vicodin does not make him long for the solitude of his apartment. A sad feeling comes over him, something he had always tried to shut out, and that he had always dreaded: emptiness. His way of life, however fulfilling to a point, now seems to be a waste of time to Gregory House, standing in the window of his office at eleven minutes past midnight, on Thursday. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to hold onto. Nothing to cherish.

As the man stands on his left leg and stares into the wan, eyeless face of that round night-watchman, he just doesn't care. He feels neither alive, nor dead. Ending his own life was never an option, he is too self-righteous for that. Plus, he has a theory that the world of the dead would not want him. But at moments of complete dejection he is too alone to care about his theories.

Cameron puts the key in the door and slowly walks to the hospital bed. It is where Nick, the ten year-old boy had breathed his last breath in her arms. His parents had been too late. She had to watch the whole ghastly spectacle of mother and father die of pain, and get resurrected in the next moment into a gray, endless, purposeless world. The bed is smooth now, dark, empty. The presence of the boy doesn't fill it any longer. And tomorrow the same bed will hold another person doomed to leave this life behind. Endless lines of ghosts file in through these hospital rooms, she is aware of them in her subconscious, she welcomes them and tries to accommodate them as best she can. Taking down her gown, she pulls her hair loose. Her headache is gone, but she feels a wave of exhaustion wash over her. Legs, arms, neck, hands all refuse to operate properly, and as she literally drops to the bed, her eyelids flutter, then close. All is well, is her last conscious thought.

He wanders in the hall, aimlessly willing his legs to work. Two pills have only taken the edge of the pain, and he already sees Cuddy's furious face when tomorrow he will come in with sunglasses on, in a dirty shirt and a smug face. Wilson, inquisitive, Chase, his pretty face curious, Foreman, one big shrug of confidence. Cameron… one long glance, warmth in her eyes. Hot cup of coffee. No questions, just coffee, and the fleeting touch of their fingers above the red cup. For that one glance it would be worth it.

The silence on the corridor is broken by some object falling in one of the rooms he is passing. He sees no light through the key-hole. Is there anything at all, or was he just imagining? His legs want to take him further, but his innate curiosity force his fingers to carefully turn the knob and push the door in.

There is darkness, and silence. As his eyes get used to the gloom, he discerns a slight figure lying in the bed. Unmoving, sleeping. He finds the white gown, and as he smells her scent, he senses a terrible loneliness creep onto him from the silence of the room. His first impulse, to shut the door and flee the premises, is drowned by his utmost desire to be near her, even if she is asleep. He closes the door, inaudibly, and holds his breath as she fidgets a little. When she is motionless again, he limps to the bed, and his eyes, now completely accustomed to the dark, devour the sight of her lying on her back, her hair afloat on the pillow, her arms thrown next to her body in total oblivion. He stares at her shapely breasts showing fully under her stretched shirt, and feels his throat run dry. Remembering to breathe, he lets the air out in a rushed gasp, and inhales quickly. Her peaceful beauty is like a balm to his roughened senses, the pain and the bitterness. Just watching her he feels an endless wave of gratitude for being alive, and he wonders if these are his own feelings; he had not felt honest, genuine abandonment toward anyone for… for a very long time. He had feared he might need time to adjust to what he felt, but standing there above her sleeping form he feels he's in the right place.

A car alarm goes off in the street, and as he curses inwardly, she shifts in bed, then turns around slowly, like in a dream. Her open eyes look at him with their warm gaze, and he can hear his own deafening heartbeat…


	6. Chapter 6

Uhm. This has taken a completely different turn… was not planning it, I SWEAR. Gone the poetic phrases. Will return in chapter to follow! But er, I had loads of fun writing it. And after. LOL! Please review ;)

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Time has stopped, or so it seems to him. Her eyes are bottomless lakes of soothing love, surrender and something he cannot define. Does she see him, he wonders, as he is standing there like that, lost in the wordlessness of his condition. He feels totally small and insignificant, and everything he has ever been certain of, has been washed away by her mere presence. She makes him feel unsure of himself, yet, strangely enough, he enjoys that. He drinks in her unflickering gaze, her expressionless beauty, and then he realizes that she doesn't see him: she's asleep. She softly falls back on to the pillow and closes her eyes. His breathing starts returning again, as he stands there like an idiot and resents her power to make him cling to her like that. He knows he could never do it while she was awake. Never. Sighing, he looks out the window, but the moon is gone. Steps reverberate in the hallway, and his hand freezes on his cane for a moment, but then, again, silence. Around him, inside him. Peace, abandonment, softness. He takes a last look at her resting body and turns to leave the room. His hand on the knob, turning it, his one leg ont he threshold, and then

_don't go_

He freezes. Did he imagine it? Slowly turning, he notices her half turned body, her closed eyes, her mouth open. The tingling in his leg is slowly becoming something else, and it slowly starts moving into different parts of him. His hand craves after her shape, his moth after her lips, his loins after her warmth. Without knowing what he is doing, he turns the key and locks the door from inside, then slowly limps to the bed. Just what is he doing there is not something he wants to deal with. His desire has taken over his reason, and all fear of being denied is thankfully relinquished when his gaze falls upon her curvy breasts, and the slight deepening slowly forming on her skirt, as she unconsciously opens her legs a little bit. He still cannot think clearly, he should probably ask himself why, and what, and consider the possible consequences, but seeing her in a state of total surrender makes him weak and irresponsible.

Carefully sitting down on the side of the bed, he notices the slight trembling that runs across her body as his weight presses down onto the matrace. His cane long forgotten, he has both hands free, longing to feel her warmth. So he reaches out, tentatively, and brushes some hair out of her beautiful face. Her cheek feels so incredibly soft under his rough skin, he lingers there for a moment, before he slides lower, to her shoulder. He cannot believe she doesn't wake up at his callous touch, but incredible as it may seem, she is lost in sleep. His hand travels lower, reaching her breasts, god they are so perfect, so small, so soft and perfect, he can't stop carressing them, and in the silence of the room, with the only sound being the grazing of his skin against soft clothing, he hears a quiet moan escape her lips, and he freezes. Her nipple is hard, and he knows he will lose control soon. He refuses to think of going, letting her slip through his fingers. He wants to feel her some more, he can't get enough of her flawlessness. His throat is completely dry as he tries to swallow. He slides his hand to her flat belly, gently pushing aside her blouse to reach her amazing skin. Warmth lifts up from her naked abdomen and chest, as he slowly unbuttons her blouse and pushes it to the left and the right, staring at her lace bra. Then, her face. Still asleep. He has to pull himself together not to throw himself at her at full capacity. He doesn't care if she's asleep or awake any more, he just wants her, he's almost ready to face her questioning face if she should wake up. His hand pulls her bra down and he is on the verge of losing it. He edges closer to her and brings his face to her breasts, breathing onto them softly. What the hell, he thinks, and with one sudden movement of his hands, he tears her bra apart. She still doesn't wake up. She is at his mercy, and the sudden sense of power and control makes him shiver with delight. He could technically rape her if he wanted, and she probably wouldn't say a word to anyone.

_House_

His thoughts trail off as he bends closer to her, feeling for her lips with his own, finding them, kissing them slowly, lustfully. Her mouth is ready for him, and with muffled moans she kisses him back, her tongue hungrily playing with his lips. He has long ago stopped thinking, he is one large pile of flesh and bone, all of it craving to be near her, inside her, on her, loving her and devouring her. He feels his lust wanting to explode, he is beyond caring for her condition, he wants her so bad he can hear a loud moan soar into the silence, his, but he cannot worry about it, not now, not when she is wiggling under his weight, her unconscious arms lifting to embrace his huge body, him pushing her arms down, enjoying the sight of her parted lips, of the closed and fluttering eyelids, of her perfect little breasts, nipples hard at the air temperature, but most probably at her lust awakening in her dream. He feels an irrespressible need to chuckle at the situation. Will she remember this? Or is she conscious, only making fun of him? Or, enjoying it? His fingers find the zipper on her skirt and pull it down. He sees the complications that might arise from trying to get her out of it, so instead, he pushes the skirt up to her abdomen, leaving her underwear visible. The lean thighs, her amazing skin against the perfect white panties make him shiver and move inside his jeans. With an already familiar movement he tears at the lacy clothing, twice, on both sides, and simply removes it. Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he wants to laugh at himself, despising his actions, being fully aware that he would not dare touch her like that if she were conscious. All in all, he feels exuberant.

-Cameron, are you awake? –he asks, or rather, whispers into her ear, with his last speck of decency.

She only sighs, and at his utmost surpise starts rubbing herself, slowly, expertly, with tender movements. He watches her in awe; he has never seen a woman do that. It is the most arousing spectacle he has ever laid eyes on, her slender fingers gently pressing and rubbing the already glistening hair between her legs, her hips moving in unison, her face softly contorted. Her moans start to get louder and less controlled, her eyes move wildly behind her closed lids, her hands are frantically trying to do more, but her body arches into the pillow and as one long, low moan fills the room, he stares at her face, wondering why he had been granted that beautiful sight.

-House… -she moans, and again –House…. Don't go yet…

He swallows, hardly sane any more. He touches the inside of her thighs, wet and warm. He uses both of his hands to slowly massage the thighs, up and down, just feeling the warmth of her skin, letting her hands fiddle with his fingers, smelling her scent, that of her fulfilled desire. He feels weak at the thought of her dreaming of him, making love to her, and seeing it all happen in front of his eyes. He desperately wants to be part of her dream, he would give anything to get inside her head and read her repressed desire, because now he can only get hints of what she sees. He wonders if her dream is over yet, as she seems peaceful enough under his strong rubs, quietly sighing now and then, like a freshly fed suckling. He almost hates himself at what he does next, his finger probing gently into her warmth, relishing the open wetness. She hardly moves, and he takes it slowly, gently, knowing that her body needs time to recover. He slides his finger in and out, contempt at his own actions being an insignificant part of what he feels. He feels exhilarated, light-hearted, terribly lustful, needy and grateful. He wants to give her what he can, even if it isn't much, he knows.

-God this feels good… -she whispers raucously and he instantly feels the throbbing blood in his head, his loins, his whole body. For some odd reason, he takes off his shirt first; he needs to feel her with his own skin. He loves her too much to merely take possession of her in a stealthy way. He has no patience to take his pants off completely, so he just slides out of them halfway, and carefully lets his weight press on her fragile frame. Propping himself on his elbows, he searches her face for any sign of consciousness first, then, he just stares at her, revelling her beauty. He doesn't even have to push her legs apart, they do it on their own accord, and he is already inside her, shaking with desire. Trying not to crush her he moves, slowly, hesitantly, feeling his tension rise, smelling her warm breath, hearing her quiet moans of renewed desire. He knows he can't keep it up too much longer, but he would give anything to experience her orgasm at the same time as his own. His mouth finds hers, his tongue slides in and his hands let go of hers, carressing her smooth hair instead. Her moans get louder, and fearing that someone will walk by and hear them, he kisses her more, wanting to swallow her whole, devouring her tiny face, keeping her inside him forever. She tenses up against him, her hips pressing to his with a sudden fierceness that finds him off guard. With his last energy he thrusts himself all the way inside her, and he explodes in her warmth. He falls onto her, breathing heavily, trembling with feelings he cannot express. She gasps under his weight, so he slightly shifts to let her breathe. He is so weak he has no idea how he scrambles to his feet and pulls his pants back on. Shaking fingers buttonning up his shirt, he looks at her, spent, exhausted in her sleep, and wonders how it is possible that she did not wake up. He has no idea of the pills she had taken, and suspects her of pretending.

-Cameron.

She doesn't even flinch. He leans closer and pinches her arm. Sighing, he almost wishes she had been awake, to experience the wonderful abandonment of body and spirit that he went through, and to really show him what she felt, to see her pupils dilate, feel her muscles tense and loosen up after her delight was consummated. He feels completely exhausted, and suddenly lonely. He can't reach out to her; she is lost in deep sleep, and he is heartless, but not as heartless as to brutally snatch her back to reality. She would be ashamed and furious, rightfully so. He eyes her turning to her side, facing him, totally unconscious, now in dreamless sleep. He carresses her shoulder, and covers her with the thin blanket that he takes out from under her feet. He feels guilt rising in his throat at leaving her like that, and fleeing, keeping it all a secret, making her wonder how she got into that state, giving her unnecessary alarm. When the only thing he would have needed to do was gently wake her up and ask. He knows she loves him, still, strangely, but undoubtedly loves him. She would not have said no. He knows all this with a certainty that almost gives him a headache. Taking one last look at her, he unlocks the door and goes out.


	7. Chapter 7

She wakes up feeling slightly cold. Her left side, on which she was sleeping, tingles sharply. She pulls the blanket tighter on her body, and stirs to start the blood flowing. As it does, she lies on her back, persuading her body to wake up; she feels her heart beat very fast, in fact, too fast, like after a very deep sleep.

She remembers something, something like a faded memory, and she feels the shivers going up and down her spine as she recalls House's hand on her breast, then sliding lower... It only lasts for a split second, and by the time she lets out a long sigh, she knows it was only a dream. A detailed, luscious, absolutely breathtaking dream. He had been so tender, so loving. Recalling his body... his hands... his lips... she feels a sudden jolt of desire deep inside, where she had not been touched for a very long time. She replays the scenes behind closed eyelids, fluttering in pain and ecstasy. It was a dream, yet it felt so real, so very real. The cruelty of it all strikes her in the dark, making her feel even smaller under the blanket that she doesn't remember covering herself with.

It is then she realizes she is technically naked, and a sudden fear grips her heart. Sitting up, she shoves the blanket aside, her movements fast, her breathing uncontrolled. As she notices the wetness on her thigh, she doesn't know what to think. It must have been a terribly good dream if it did this to her, she thinks, on the verge of laughter, but then she sees her bra and undies torn, thrown here and there. She looks at the door, and sees the key hanging in the lock. Sitting on the side of the bed, wondering if this is the dream, right now, from which she will have to wake up, she experiences a sudden throbbing between her legs. His face hovering over hers haunts her, and she feels his slow thrusts inside her as clearly as daylight. What if... what if he found her asleep?

And?

He would never do that.

He might have. He's a man after all. And he likes you. Your body, at least.

But he doesn't do anything stealthily. Against his principle.

She doesn't know him that well, but she knows he would never have done it. The certainty leads her to the knowledge that shatters her every cell, and tears start streaming down her face. She cries because she wishes it was him. She wishes he had been there, and taken her, never mind her pride or obvious shifts in their work relationship. She knows it was someone else, someone who took advantage of her, someone who doesn't even know her, who only saw a piece of helpless female flesh. Her sobs get louder as she stands up, pulling her skirt down with shaking hands. She gathers the torn pieces of clothing from the bed, buttons up her blouse, brushes her hair back into a ponytail. Two staggering steps towards the closed door, then she stops in the dark and has no idea what to do. Should she tell anyone? There is no sign of forceful penetration, she feels no pain, only her heart aches and her stomach feels fluttery as dawn approaches.

Leaning to the door, she relives those amazing moments. He was making love to her, his muscles tensing inside her, while someone else was taking advantage of her unconscious body. She shivers at the thought, but cannot stop thinking of those scenes behind her closed eyelids. Her hand slides to where he had touched her, she teases herself, makes her own tears flow uncontrollably, but she desperately wants to have been his, so she wills her dream to become a real memory she can forever fall back on.

He pushes his apartment door open and bangs it angrily. He is closer to hating himself that he has ever been. The feeling is not pleasurable, and as he discovers he has no scotch left, he throws the empty bottle into the trashcan, upturning it and spilling all its insides onto the kitchen floor. He drops to his settee, dark thoughts chasing each other in his mind. There is something irretrievable in the evening, as he leans back onto the familiar softness, those neutral arms he has been running home to for so many years now. A car speeds past in the silence, and the loud engine makes his head ache with everything he had experienced that evening. He pops in his Vicodin, then after a moment's thought, another. His disgust doesn't diminish at the recollection of Cameron's unconditional abandonment, even if it was unconscious. He knows, he _knows_ she would have done the same, had she been awake. Had it been one of his dreams, he could have denied it all with a clear conscience, because that's what he was like. But she is different: what she dreams is what she is ready to admit. He feels horrible at having been granted the chance to read her like an open book. And then, his raping her. Technically, that's what it was. She was helpless, and he took advantage. He doesn't remember ever having done anything as disgusting his whole life. His sarcasm and arrogance is so lost in the moment that he lies helplessly on his couch, and forgets his leg pain, his thirst for Scotch, his bodily exhaustion. Darkness grows on him like a gigantic spider web, and he accepts the role of the victim readily. Anything is better than being weighed down by the responsibility of what he did. He knows he has to face it sooner or later, but he wants to postpone the moment.

The silence is so thick he can actually feel it around him, shapes of thoughts and memories floating in his room, and his mind. His hands lie on both sides of him, palms down, fingers spread on the leather cover of his couch. He brings his right hand to his face, combs through his hair with it. It is then he smells her smell on his finger. In an instant, he recalls the sinfully exhilarating images from an eternity ago. His contempt grows with his re-awakened desire, yet he is unable to stop himself. He pulls those images out of his mind, he reshapes them into clarity, he re-watches them in sheer delight. He did a terrible thing, but the feeling he is left with is a kind of excited joy, a strange, sinful fulfillment. His shame is washed away by the overwhelming wish to see her again, and make love to her once more.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N- I apologize but I needed to end this chapter with her feelings so I added a bit to this one. **

**Disclaimer- I own House. And Cameron. Basically, I can do whatever I want with them. IN MY STORIES! Fox might have thought of them, but I twist them the way I want to, right here, right now. Blah blah and more blah.**

CHAPTER 8 (revised)

The next day finally arrives. He gets up after a sleepless night, both legs aching, his head in a turmoil, his eyes baggy and his mouth dry. He brushes his teeth in a rush, tears his shirt off, puts on another, and claims to be ready. For the dreaded day. To face whatever there is to face. To face her. Himself.

The rain all but dissuades him from going to work at all. Monochrome streets and grey skies speed by as he turns left and right on his motorcycle. He presses his lips tight, defying the cold and the pain that's becoming stronger as he approaches the hospital. Both feet on the ground, he cannot make himself look up, lest he should see her at the entrance. Then he grinds his teeth in sheer disgust, and taking his cane, hobbles in.

His office is a mess, really. Did he leave it like that the previous night? Details slip his memory, except those luscious details that will probably stay with him for the rest of his days. And which have changed at least two human lives. He drops his leather jacket, as he turns the computer on. He looks up, sees no one. Biting his lip, he erases all seventeen emails from his inbox. He awaits Chase or Foreman, but they are not coming. No Cuddy either? No case? He slumps down and exhales. He hangs by a thin thread, and it's getting worse as time goes by. Every moment, every minute takes him further from that precious scene, and as time drags on, his resolution gets smaller. The certainty that he has to tell her thins out, rain clouds pour onto him and soak up his willpower. He dreads the moment he will finally see her, because he has no idea how he will react. Will it be a stupid joke this time? Will he get all weak and soapy? There is no good way to tell her. He will make a complete idiot of himself, or she will hate him forever. Or both.

-Early start, House? –Chase blurts out as he comes in all fresh and impertinent.

-Rain kept me up –House pulls a face, as he grabs his yoyo and starts playing.

Chase says nothing as he goes to the coffee machine. House follows his every move, listens to his every whisper. Does he know anything? Did she make him her confidante? Does he try to set a trap? But Chase makes his coffee as nothing was out of the ordinary. When he finishes and is ready to leave, he turns to House.

-Do you want any?

-Cameron will make mine. Your coffee sucks –House grimaces.

-Yeah. But she's not in.

-I guess you weren't her hot date this time, or you would've called in sick too –House mumbles, a little less sarcastic than planned. Chase draws his eyebrows and exits without a word.

As the young idiot's steps fade away, the silence starts eating at Gregory House. His hand, tight on the yoyo, is not conscious of its movements. The man sits in his chair as the raindrops trickle down his office windows. The office, silent and empty, is the last place he wants to be in. He starts thinking, tries to arrange his thoughts into some kind of order, but most of his half-thought ideas end up to one thing: she knows. Or at least, she is aware that something happened in the night. That someone else was there. She probably thinks that someone else tore off her underwear, and raped her. She probably hasn't told anyone, or else Chase would have slipped some information. That boy just can't keep a secret, especially if it's about his beloved Cameron.

He turns in his chair, swirls around randomly, struggles to keep her face out of his head, but fails miserably. He knows her so much that he knows with a painful sureness what she looks like right now: probably curled up in her bed, all alone, weeping, not knowing what to do, who to tell, who to ask for help. The thought of her teary face makes him so restless, he feels like getting up and riding all the way to her apartment, tearing her door down and hugging her. Right. Like hugging her would make everything alright. Wake up, idiot.

And then, the old House takes over. He keeps sitting in his chair, biting his lip, swallowing some of his pills. He knows what he did, but he also knows that he can escape all responsibility. Furthermore, he remembers her face in her sleep. She was having the time of her life in her dream. As in reality, he wants to chuckle, but somehow the smirky atmospere is lost in the drenched afternoon. He is miserable, but his struggle to preserve his integrity is successful. His lonely figure is one motionless shape in the early morning gloom; his cane rests faithfully on his desk, his jacket drips rain and tears from its sleeves, his yoyo squeezed into a slight, helpless ball of withheld emotions between his fingers.

He will not tell her. She doesn't need to know. It would all be very, very awkward. And hurtful for both of them, he decides.

Afternoon is her friend, Cameron thinks, as she gets up drowsily and steps to the washing machine to stop it. She takes the clothes out, but instead of hanging them, she just lets them lie in the plastic basket. She slowly walks back to the bedroom, switches the lamp on. Her book awaits her patiently, even though Cameron has not read a single word since… well, it was a long time she last read from that book. She just keeps it at the bedside for safety, in case sleep is not ready to come.

Like tonight, as she lies awake, wide-eyed and mentally exhausted. The fact keeps repeating itself in her head, you were raped, you were raped, you were raped. You should tell someone. That person might still be there. Or, worse, might work there. It could be someone you know. She scans her brain for her acquaintances, her colleagues, but the conjecture that anyone might have done it simply makes her stomach turn in fear and disgust.

Night crawls in slowly, unnoticed, muffling the sharpness of objects and humans. Her tiny form lies motionless on her bed, her book on her stomach, her hand on her book. She is so still she could dissolve into the covers like a chameleon, and become unseen to all but herself, aware of something, something that drags her back into reality the moment she is ready to step off into blissful nothingness. Unbothered by sounds or visions, she merely feels touched, caressed, fondled, dived into, used, but gently used, made into a vessel for purging some kind of sins that someone must have committed. Twisting reality into some strangely mystical revelation makes it easier for her to think about it. Abstraction always helps, because then she is flesh and bone no more, a female entity violated no longer, only something handy at a certain point in time. One tiny circle in the long chain of never ending happenings.

Shades of pale grey and blue chase each other on her ceiling as her eyes blink unconsciously. Forcing herself to think about it is the only plausible solution that present itself to her right now. What is she so afraid of? She is not harmed physically. Even if that someone used her, they used her gently. She is alive, she is, well, hopefully still healthy. A quick flush covers her cheeks in the night as she thinks about possible consequences: syphilis, chlamydia, AIDS, herpes genitalis, gonorrhoea. She might even get pregnant. She has not been on the pill for almost two years now. Why poison her body when there is no one?

Night covers her senses as she lies in the dark. She drifts into a long sleep, the sleep that is the privilege of the emotionally exhausted. Rhythmical breathing is the only sound the room contains, and that of the human subconscious, grazing against the human will, preparing for the big fight that it will undoubtedly win. As usual.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N- Yeah baby, this is what I like. Suffer suffer suffer, people in and out of the story. Please forgive my sadistic nature… Usually I suffer too, and I can see it coming with every chapter. And please keep up the reviews! Your comments are highly and seriously appreciated, and so is the fact that you're reading this! PS Don't forget to read the revised Ch 8.**

CHAPTER 9

There are moments in one's life when everything is so condensed in one minute time-cell which contains them that time actually stops moving. Sounds and smells freeze in mid-air, like in really bad, computer-generated animation movies, and one simply stands, waiting, stopping at what they were doing, anticipating the thunder of the universe speeding up after that one fateful instant. One knows that the human heart can only take as much as it had been ordained to take, yet one cannot avoid the clash and the crush of the different dimensions: emotions will scream at the face of reality, memories will reveal themselves as new facsimiles of things craved for, place will collide with time, and time with its inexorable pace will constrain the moment to move on, break the bubble and let its innards ooze out.

She has a file in her hand, a hand that is shaking rather severely. She is looking at her own test results.

It is then she hears the familiar steps. The thump of the cane approaching. She only has time to crumple up the paper and push it deep into her coat pocket.

He watches her as she turns to the documents she had on the desk and ticks off something automatically. For anyone else she might look normal and composed, but his senses are way too acute not to notice the slight emotional shifts she exhibits from time to time.

It has been a week and a half. That next day she had come in to work as usual, no stress showing on her, the only sign that something was off having been her physical weakness. Cuddy had advised her to go for a general checkup, and the boys had been extremely attentive to her. House… well, House was behaving House-like. He did not really have to work too hard. He found the whole situation immensely intriguing and piquant, him having a secret, a dark, luscious secret that he could go back to anytime he wanted, and she having her own version of the same secret. He knew it was sick, but watching her, the victim, perform her daily routine under his nose simply made him exuberant.

He has to give it to her: she is very good. No person alive would be able to tell anything. She moves efficiently, closes down files, stacks them in order, works at her (and his) correspondence, then moves on to patients, and hours later she emerges looking even more tired, but wearing that aura of satisfaction that only people with large amounts of guilt in their system can wear.

Right now she is writing away. No sound, no movement other than her slender wrist racing on white paper. He watches her from the corner of his eye, intently. Occasionally he wonders if he is turning into a psychopath; then he alleviates his remorse by persuading himself that sooner or later he will tell her. Maybe. But not yet. For now, he is enjoying his daily show that is almost as good as General Hospital.

He swallows drily and remembering his coffee, stands up from his desk to move to the coffee machine. By the time his left hand would lift to empty the old filter, she is already there, gently ushering him away, as each and every time, preparing for their own private morning ritual he is sure she delights in as much as he does. Without a word, she opens bag, takes spoon, places cup, presses button, and as usual, he lingers there propped on his cane, eyeing her with silent satisfaction, registering her gestures, smelling all of her in with the poignant odour of freshly made coffee. He knows she thinks of him as he stands there, he can see through her, into her thoughts, and he senses that having someone look at you while you try to act as if you didn't notice it is not only unnerving, but also sensual. He starts a smile, mainly for his own pleasure, as smiling is a luxury he does not relish too often. He is smiling now, taking the whole situation in, adding what had happened before, and what might happen after to the speck of present tense they are both part of.

She stops the machine and her hand is on his cup to give it to him, when he notices her slight hesitation. As her eyelids flutter he wants to ask what is wrong but has no time, and the next thing he knows is that both of his arms are around her tiny frame, her unconscious arms squeezed to his chest from the sudden move, her eyes closed, his cane on the floor. He checks for her pulse which is fine, then leans to the cupboard and balances himself on his good leg. She is so light that he can hardly feel any extra weight. Only her head presses heavy against his shoulder, and his worried thoughts against his conscience.

-Cameron… can you hear me? –he says, gently tapping her soft cheek.

She wakes up in his arms. She can smell him through his shirt, so her nose drinks in the odour of his skin and of his breath. Her ears tingle at the sound of his voice quietly calling out her name. She feels as weak as a withered autumn leaf, but he holds her strongly and she feels her heartbeat fasten dangerously. She allows herself to enjoy the moment a bit longer, taking a long, long whiff of all that surrounds him, and then slowly opens her eyes and pushes him away.

-What the hell was that? –he asks, his hand still on her arm. She stands at the counter, propping herself but not resisting his hand.

-Had no breakfast. Should be smarter at age twenty-nine.

He doesn't reply, only watches her, as she rubs her temple with both hands, and turns away to pick up some papers from her desk. As she is about to exit the conference room, she turns back. She points at the coffee cup and opens her mouth to say something, then decides against it and walks out.

Oh my god, she thinks, staggering in the hall. She has no idea where she is going. She could cry in this very moment when she remembers what it felt like to be part of him, surrounded by him, squeezed in tight between his arms and his wide chest. She inhales rapidly, trying to steady her thoughts. Lust is something she cannot deal with right now. She takes the elevator to the ground floor, then opens the entrance door and steps out to breathe in some fresh air. It travels through her lungs and gives her a little bit of time to steady herself, before her mind jerks back to reality which is yelling into her face from the crumpled paper she is viewing. She reads it again and again, and wishes dearly it wasn't true. Looking up, she sees yellow-greyish clouds racing over the sky at a fierce speed. The win blows her hair into her eyes and mouth, but she never notices any of it. Her mind staggers through a spectrum of emotions in a split second's time. She fears turning back, she fears looking aside, as everything she does from this moment on will change her life forever. She feels alone and miserable, and longs to have his arms around her once more. As tears well up in her eyes, she slowly turns around and walks back into the building.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Yay, I just love these endings! LOL! They keep me suspended on thin air too and all I can think about is how to go on with it. Seeing how this got me sucked in, you won't have to wait long for the sequel heh. Please review so that I know if there is anything I should change. (Not sure I would, though LOL.) Anyway, there ya go. Enjoy the angst!**

CHAPTER 10

He can hardly concentrate on his work. She has been so distant ever since that morning that he hardly ever meets her outside the conference room, and there she restricts herself to medical remarks. The others have noticed how strange she is, but she keeps sweeping off their anxious looks and remarks with simple I'm okay, Just a bad day, Haven't slept too well things. House, on the other hand, doesn't ask her anything. He watches her closely, like a hawk, and feels his impatience rise in him. He is not only curious, but also worried. She felt so soft in his arms, her head limp against his chest, so fragile. He can't help himself, he is falling for her delicacy, her sadness, her aloofness. He wants to be part of her life.

But she has not even looked at him for almost a week now. And she has taken three days off yesterday. He wonders if he should ask Wilson or Cuddy to help him. Maybe they could talk to her. Not even his favourite soap characters can cheer him up; suddenly they all look so corny and stupid. Soap has been his oasis of calmness for so long now, in the midst of which his thoughts could soar high, and he kept telling himself it was just an addictive recreational time he needed to operate more efficiently. What is slowly dawning on him now is that he loves those people dearly, he needs to see they are alright, he has to witness their flawless happy moments, because he will never have anything remotely as happy to show for.

As he turns off the TV set, he notices how time has flied. Half past four. Of course, it was a rerun. He rubs his eyes and gets off his chair. He has nothing particular to do, no case unsolved, no patients swiveling around, no mad Cuddy to yell in his face. He is bored, and misses her from his office, from her desk, from next to the coffee machine. He could call her and ask her what she is doing. If she is alright. Would that be too telling? Well, she works for him. He has to know if he can count on her the day after tomorrow.

……………………………..

-Cameron? What's up?

She holds the receiver but she wonders why she answered the phone. She doesn't want to speak to anyone. Not even him.

-Nothing.

He scratches his beard and squints into the lazy, sunny afternoon.

-Will you be coming to work on Thursday?

That's all he cares about, she thinks bitterly.

-Yes. Bye.

He stares at the receiver, which he then slowly puts down. Something is wrong.

Yeah, something is. Duh, you asshole. You raped her, you bastard, obviously she isn't having the time of her life. As an uncontrollable wave of guilt passes over him, he limps to his jacket and then leaves his office.

-No time for stupid patients now. I'm going to see Cameron. She sounded unhappy on the phone.

-Oh really? Your deductive skills are still the best in the country –Cuddy frowns, walking briskly next to him. –Since when do you care so much for your colleagues?

-They are happy, work is good. They are miserable, work sucks. It's in my interest.

-I'm just not sure you're the best person to go see her right now.

-Do you know anything? –he asks, trying to make it sound matter of factly, and failing.

-No. But if she took three days off there must be something she has to set straight. She needs time. Leave her alone- Cuddy says with another frown, then shakes her head and walks away.

……………………………….

As he puts his helmet on, rain starts coming down. He takes the helmet off and turns his face towards the sky, allowing the cool drops to hit his skin and pour down gently. Opening his mouth he feels rain entering it, and he slowly swallows the sweetness gathering on his tongue. He wants to sit there forever and enjoy the feeling, no rush, no fear. Of course, perfection has to end, like everything, so when the quick shower stops he opens his eyes and wipes his face with his hand, then starts the engine and roars off.

……………………………….

She sits in her magically shrunk living-room, almost sensing the walls gradually closing in on her, as air gets scarce and she finds it more and more difficult to breathe. Too much, too much is happening, and her mind is begging for time out. She sits in her armchair, rocking to and back, something she has been doing since he called her up. To find out if she was ready to work again. She feels so miserable it doesn't even cross her mind that it could be the only way he could have showed he cares. But pondering about House's actions is the last thing she is ready to do just now.

At the knock on her door she jumps, like awoken from deep sleep. Gazing at her clock she sees it is past six. She gets up and drags herself to the door, not bothering to look into the peephole.

Just a tiny tremor in her body when she sees his face. She says nothing, her mouth turning downwards, and he knows she is in distress. Good lord help me, he murmurs to himself, when she slowly goes back in and he follows her.

She sits down and stares ahead, clutching her knees and gently rocking her body. Seeing her like this almost makes him step out of character and kneel down, gather her in his arms, cradle her. Instead, good old House sits down facing her, and soundlessly leans his cane against a bookshelf.

She is aware of him being in the room, oh how she is aware. His presence fills her lungs, expanding them, pushing the walls further out, helping her breathe again. She lifts her eyes to him, to those cool blue eyes fixed on her, looking at her and through her. She shudders and pulls her sweater tighter on her body.

-Why are you here? –she finally asks, after what seems an eternity.

-To find out why _you_'re here.

She looks away, never stopping the rocking. It calms her, reminds her of her childhood, where she wants to go back, she wants to be a child with no responsibilities, no compulsions, just laughter and ice-cream. She can't possibly tell him what happened. Oh, night crawlers, take him away from here, I want to be alone, she sobs inwards.

-Are you pregnant?

His voice cuts through the silence reigning in the room, and grazes her face with such sharpness that she gasps. Her hand starts shaking, she can't stop it, she doesn't want to break down and make a fool of herself, but she desperately needs someone to hold on to.

-How…? –she starts, then falters.

-You have been displaying all the symptoms of morning sickness –he says quietly, suddenly scared to death of her reply. He knows he is right, of course; he could have seen it earlier, and here she is, shaken to pieces.

Her tears start running down her cheek. She can't and doesn't want to stop them, hoping that after a certain amount of tears wept she will feel better. Or forget it all.

-I was –she whispers.

-Wh… what do you mean?

His head is spinning and he feels as weak as a newborn lamb, surrounded by danger all around. He knows what she means. The knowledge makes him silent and makes his brain, his limbs, his everything stop. He is above the precipice he fears most. He never wants to hurt people and yet he always does it, and here he did it again, hurting the woman who loves him with all her heart, hurting her so many times.

-I had an abortion yesterday –she says, her voice strangely calm now.

There, I've said it out loud, she thinks, and lets out a big sigh. Relief, stingy relief comes, but goes away in the next second. She said it, and the realization weighs down on her, it gets worse, she has to do something, she has to move, so she stands up and takes a few steps. Instinctively, towards him. He draws her towards him so hard that she feels like she's floating closer to him, sitting there motionless.

-The father didn't want it? –he asks. He has no idea how he manages to utter those horrible words.

She stops, looks down on him, feeling light as a feather. She feels like she can tell him anything, so she does.

-I don't know. I was raped a few weeks ago. I was sleeping at the hospital.

Her voice is quiet, so quiet, and as she stands there, statue of angelic beauty and soothing peace, he is wondering what might go on inside her. And what will go on inside her when he tells her. He bites his lip, turns away, watching her carpet, her books, wishing dearly he could turn back time.

-No you weren't –he says, his raucous voice making her heart leap.

-Sleeping at the hospital? –she asks, not knowing is she should laugh or cry.

-Raped.

He looks at her, into her eyes, all big and wide and asking him so much, he can't take it, he just can't.

-It was me –he continues, never taking his eyes off her.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: This morning I just realized how this would end, and let me tell you, you're not going to like it. But, stories have a life of their own, I can't change them, they are just born and you have to write them down as they want to be written down. Kindof like kids, really. Anyway, ending's a few chapters away, so… Sorry for this short chapter.**

CHAPTER 11

She opens her mouth, instinctively, wants to say something, because that's expected of humans when they are talking to someone, interaction, words, given, spattered, vomited, sucked in, sacrificed as the closest thing to our thoughts. She hears his words, she tries to process them, grasp their meaning, but her mind is blank. Instead, an overwhelming sense of nausea is getting a grip on her. She takes a few uncertain steps to her window and opens it with a trembling hand. Breathing fresh air should help is the only thing she can think of. So she breathes in the fresh air in deep gulps, trying to steady her quivering stomach.

He has no idea what to do, he feels like standing up, going closer, placing a hand on her shoulder, or walk up and down, or go away, or just sit there and say something. Anything. His helplessness is welling up inside him, he knows he can't do or say anything that would make her feel better. He hears his own words in his head, marching up and down in his skull, causing such chaos that it slowly starts crawling down to his leg, making it throb like hell, making him sweat in agony.

She turns away from the window, faces him, still standing close to the wall. She is pale and so shrunken he cannot stand to see her like that. His head is hung, he stares at his sneakers, he breathes in heavily, and her words almost make him jump.

-I had your baby, you son of a bitch. Were you planning on telling me?

He looks up, speechless. His eyes are full of remorse, she can see it clearly, and he is suffering too, she senses it. But she cannot, just cannot deal with that.

-Go.

-Look… -he starts, clutching his hands together. –I… I just found you sleeping, and I wanted to leave, but… you said my name, you asked me not to go…

-And _that_ you took for an invitation to rape me?

-I did not rape you –he replies, the words stinging on his lips. –I… you wanted it, I…

-Go –she says, resolute this time.

He sighs, and takes a few seconds before he stands up slowly, grabbing his cane. He never looks at her, because he can see her face clearly even if he closes his eyes. He just limps out of her apartment and silently closes the door behind him.

She looks at the chair he had been sitting on. There is so much on her mind that her head is bursting with pain. Dropping to her couch, she lies down, curls up into a ball, squeezes her eyes shut like a kid who thinks the dream monster will disappear behind closed eyelids. She remembers her dream. He had been there. It was not only a dream. But he kept it a secret. He used her. She was just a body to him. A good fuck. He is sorry now, or so he says. She can only think in very, very short sentences, and even those hurt her every cell.

She remembers her child. Theirs. It had hurt her before, but now, now she feels pain coming onto her in ripples and waves and storms of infinite, sharp stabs. Emptiness is claiming her, she clings to its walls, she wants to jump and leave it all behind, but she only sinks slowly downwards, like a suicidal person with a heavy stone roped to her neck. Her descent is slow and painful, as time is mercilessly pulling her down and yelling all the horrible things that have happened to her in the past few weeks, and the facts are imprinted in her brain in red, gushing wounds of memory.

Sobs shake her body and tears sting her eyes, it doesn't relieve the hurting, but that's the only thing she can do, that's what her instincts tell her to do. Her pain and anger and disillusionment and bereavement and sorrow all come together in loud sobs, she weeps to empty her system of all that's been devouring her, she feels it will never end, she feels she cannot take it any longer, and then the next moment tells her that she can, she can, so she weeps some more, feeling lonely and bitter and a little melodramatic. Then, when the flood of tears stops, she is so exhausted that she falls asleep instantly.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Now this took a slightly different turn than the one I planned. Hoping it is at least kindof realistic, and without giving out any spoilers, I'll follow the path the story is showing me. PS: Thanks so much for the reviews, they do keep me going, and I am so glad you guys are reading this and liking it. Thanks a bunch! PPS: Apologies for grammar mistakes, not my native tongue, I do envy all of you who were born into this wonderful language…**

CHAPTER 12

-Dammit Chase, you can't even deal with an MR now? Let me know when you three guys can figure it out. I'll be watching General hospital.

With that, House storms (yes, storms) into his office and slams the door. He is extremely edgy this morning, he knows it's his leg, it's the Vicodin shortage (having to wait one more hour until the next shipment arrives), it's the three impotent, helpless, imbecile doctors he has to put up with every single day of his life. And Cuddy, irate, looking like a witch, flaming eyes, and mouth spilling flames and snakes, pestering him about stupid rules and clinic duty. Wilson, well, he is absent. Had taken a week off to visit parents. Or whatever. He doesn't even remember where he went. Things people tell him are like sea waves, they reach him, then go back instantly, and the next wave is always different, there is no way he can remember things. He doesn't want to. Remembering is hurtful.

Three weeks, three fucking weeks and he has not been able to reach her. She is there, working, helping, but a completely different person. Sometimes he wonders if it was best he let her go, just, well, fire her, or tell her to disappear, for good. What he has to put up from her is, to put it bluntly and mildly, hell.

He slumps into his chair, switches on his TV set. He sees the movement on the screen, but has no idea what the hell is going on. From the corner of his eye he is following sounds and moves outside him, like a bat, catching all kinds of subtle noises, cramping his neck and straining his ears to grasp everything around him. It is the only way he can justify being there. By pretending that he's part of everything and everyone. This is where his curiosity has been leading to all his life, he knows it; he hates it, but it's an undeniable fact.

There she is, lithe as a gazelle, slim and petite, so fucking beautiful. And he had her. Oh god how he had her, all wet and juicy and moving under his muscles, moaning his name into his mouth GOD when he recalls those moments he is on fire and he can hardly control himself, he feels he will burst, explode, evaporate into thin air, dissolve and become what he has always dreaded: nothing. To be honest, he is nothing as it is. Old, bitter, a miserable bastard. Has no life, has no friends, has no family. Has no future.

He has tried everything. He has tried to talk to her. He tried to be nice. He asked her how she was doing. He even left a book on her desk. No flowers, not his thing, but a book, sensible, cultural, intellectual. And she likes books. She thanked him, took the book, but nothing else. She is not rude to him; even on his worst days she is polite and even kind, her words are soft and mellow, her glance quick to kindle and warm. But he knows something is different.

He bites his lip, his eyes following the stupid soap characters, but his senses following her every move. She passes him, his nostrils detect her smell, and he stops breathing, wanting to keep her inside his lungs, live on her scent, feed on it, then he has to exhale and let her out of his system. She is gone behind the glass door, and he sits there, wistful and alone.

God, he needs air. He hobbles to the window and opens it. He doesn't register what time of day it might be, and he doesn't care. Time spent at the hospital and at home doesn't really make any difference to him any more. At work at least he is busy for a few hours. At home, he has nothing else to do but swallow Chinese food and watch stupid shows and tolerate the occasional good-boy Wilson. He doesn't play his piano any more. Once in a while he ponders about these things and wonders if he is a lost case, whether he should go ask professional help. Then he feels relieved: the real loonies don't consider themselves sick. He is aware, very much so, that he is slipping away from life, but cannot grab onto anything.

Warm flower scent floats in from outside, as he stands, his eyes fixed on a blurry point in space across the road. Some song reaches his ears in ripples of melody, words half understood and half mocked by the afternoon wind. Then his vision clears and he sees her beside her car. She disappears within a few seconds, and the physical distance grows painfully, his leg starting to hurt like crazy, so he has to sit down, curse under his breath, and rub his thigh with both his hands.

After a while, it gets easier. All the dark thoughts retreat for a short time, and his mind is lucid enough for him to decide: he must go and talk to her. Force her to listen to him if he has to. Otherwise he will go insane.

……………………………

Outside her door he doesn't give himself time to think, or remember, or ruminate on things past and irretrievable. He knocks, waits. Knocks again. Then pounds on the door.

-You have to wake up my neighbours? –she asks, face calm as a morning pond.

-We have to talk –he replies, literally pushing her in.

She doesn't resist him. He walks in, sits down, she closes the door and sits down too. She looks resolute and strong. He has never felt so attracted to her.

-Look.

He searches her eyes, finds them. They are deep lakes of sorrow and pain and pride and longing. He knows he has one shot. One single shot. If he screws up, he loses her for good.

-I am really sorry… about what I did. I wish I could do it back. I hate to see what I did to you… I hate work like this… I hate myself most of all.

She sits there with lips pressed tight, never moving or turning away.

-Please say what you feel… let's talk it out… hit me… ruin me… punish me… do what you want, just please get it out of your system and move on, cos this is… this is killing me –he finishes, his voice rasping and trailing off.

-Why? –she asks, folding her arms.

-Why what?

-Why now? Why do you care now? You had me. You had me good. The whole night, I assume. You did what you wanted from me, you have been wanting this ever since you hired me. A good body, a good brain, a good fuck, you thought. Well, was I?

Her voice hits his senses like gigantic rocks that he cannot avoid. Her eyes pierce his skin, he feels sweaty and smoldering inside his clothes, he feels horrible, she is so beautiful and so right.

-Was I? –she repeats her question, standing up, walking towards him, stopping just one step from him. She looks down on him, and he holds her gaze, his hand wants to move to grab her, hold her, smother her, keep her to himself forever. His breathing is rapid and shallow, he feels the first bead of perspiration trickle down his forehead, and he can't breathe any more, he stands up, towers over her, so minute and fearless, like a miniature amazon. She is feline and perfect, and she is so close that he reaches out and touches her, and she doesn't pull away. His hands are pressed onto her arms, judging from her expression they must hurt, but he is beyond control, he is hurting in more than one way, and his head is spinning from all the things that want to get out.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Uhm. Sorry. (Or not. Depending on how you take M rated stuff.) RATED M! strongly! This was not planned, trallala, but it just popped in and didn't wanna leave until typed down. Not that I mind… enjoy! (giggle) Of course, it wouldn't be me if I made it all happy-happy-joy-joy.**

CHAPTER 13

She does not resist him, she does not fight, he knows that she would lose the fight, and he knows that she knows it too. Yet he doesn't give a damn that he is at an advantage. All he wants is to have her close to him, he is scared he will hurt her, he is hurting her already, he can see it in her eyes, so he lets go of her arms and steps closer, until their bodies touch. She still doesn't push him away, and they are standing there, she shaking under her composure, he totally out of control and wistful. He steps even closer, he is so tight against her now that he can feel her thighs pressed to his, and he also feels his desire grow, oh how he craves her. She is like a balm to all his pain: he has forgotten about his leg, about his headache, about his misery. When their lips meet he starts trembling from the power that is gathering inside his body, longing to erupt.

Her small hands touch his chest, slide across it, then down to his waist, and pull his shirt out, so she can feel his bare skin. Oh, she knows she is his, whatever he did, whatever he will do, she knows it is her fate to love him, he needs her so much, she feels his shaking body pressed tight against hers, she hears his skin and arms and legs and tongue and his every cell beg to be close to her.

He doesn't dare kiss her the rough way, her lips are so soft and he knows he is callous and scraggy. He tastes her lips, slowly parting to allow his tongue in, god he has to have her or he will die, his arms encircle her gently, as he kisses her without stop, he feels her warm palms on his back, her tongue in his mouth, kindling his desire with its every move. His hand slowly moves up to the back of her head, gently caressing her velvety hair, holding her head and kissing her harder. She kisses him back, her hands still on his back, her fingers pressing into his skin. He is breathing through her mouth, he cannot pull away from her, he needs her to stay alive, so he embraces her tighter, slides his tongue into her mouth and when she lets out a muffled moan he feels so stiff it hurts. Her hands travel lower, to his buttocks, and she pulls his hips closer to hers, rubbing gently against his body.

He can't take it any longer. He drops to his knees and pulls her down to the floor. She lies there panting as he pushes her shirt up, with her bra. He is close to the edge already, but feels a great impulse to make her as happy as he can. He stoops down and licks her skin just between her breasts, while he pushes the clothes above her head, then throws them far away. Her eyes are full of lust and love, she is so beautiful she takes his breath away. He starts kissing her left breast, then takes her nipple in his mouth and writes tiny circles around it with his tongue. She is panting and wiggling under his weight and it feels so good he can hardly control himself. He unbuttons her pants and jerks them off her, then her panties, and almost falls on her, he wants her so much, but instead, he kisses the insides of her thighs, already wet, then he pushes his tongue inside her, deep, tasting her, licking her, feeling her shake in his hands. Her moans make him ache inside his pants, but he keeps going, enjoying the sight of her perfect body move in ecstacy. She wants to pull away from him but he doesn't let her, he keeps licking her until her body turns into endless ripples of delight, and he kisses her gently there, placing her down to rest. He is also tired, but just a little, and the sight of her having an orgasm makes him exhilarated.

He lies down next to her, holding her hand in silence. She doesn't rest much, she sits up and frees him of his clothes rather fast. Her lips feel like kisses of fire, purging him from all evil, she is all over him, and then takes him into her mouth and he closes his eyes, wondering if he will last at all. He forces himself to hold back, enjoying her warmth, her lips and her tongue licking him all the way.

He sits up and pushes her away, he is so close he has to think of something completely unsexy, like, his aunt Josephine's hairnet. He chuckles to himself for a minute or so, then presses her flat on her back and settles himself above her. God she is beautiful, her eyes desire and love and craving. He feels her hand grabbing him and teasing him, rubbing his tip into her wet warmth. Her lips part and she lets out a gasp as he enters her slowly, filling her up completely. Her legs encircle his waist and her hands press his hips even closer, but he pulls out slightly, then slides back in, slowly, then he starts moving out of her and back in, as her hands lose their grip and her moans get louder again. He pushes her arms above her head and as he kisses her, he erupts into her with a beastly groan, and she lifts up her hips and makes tiny moves, pushing and rubbing against him, and she comes again, a teardrop lazily trickling down on her cheek. He drops onto her, totally spent, shaking, out of breath.

He lies next to her, so happy it scares him. He wonders what she thinks of, but doesn't dare ask. Sexual fulfillment is one thing, but he is not entirely sure he undid all the harm he had caused.

She stares at the ceiling, beyond herself with emotions. Ok, so sex is good with him. Very good. But she cannot base her feelings on this one aspect. Her trust had long been abused, and she is afraid to let herself go completely. He acted like a criminal, he lied, he kept a horrible thing secret from her, he used her. He might have used her again. And he might use her anytime. Because she is such a sucker for this imperfect human being called Gregory House.

She sits up, suddenly cold and lonely. The man next to her is a stranger, someone she cannot trust just yet. At least, this is what her one half is saying. The other half wants to cling to his body and be his forever. What happened to the fate theory? She despises her inconsistent nature, but she is too afraid to make a decision.

-So… to answer your question… -he chuckles into the silence -… yes, you were.

She freezes and her heart stops beating. All her doubts are cleared away, and all her questions answered. Her decision is so simple to make. As she stares at her floor carpet, and the stain on it from last year's party, she slowly starts floating away, she doesn't care where, until she is mentally miles away from the throbbing human being lying next to her.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: A short one. More like an intermezzo. More soon!**

CHAPTER 14

Between the moment she thought they were the ancestral _one_ and her cold disillusionment eternity lies lazily, stretching the bridge in between, making it impassable for her, dark and dangerous and ugly. Was it real? Did she ever think that he could, just might, truly care for her, and see her as she was, not as she was wrapped, like a perfect, jolly Christmas gift? She did. She remembers it clearly: she saw it in his eyes, his passionate abandon and his sincerity. She was happy then. Accepting the fact that he might, after all, be fond of her in his own way had come so easily to her: he was House, the person she saw daily, the doctor she looked up to every minute of her working time, the man she longed for and loved every moment of her conscious and unconscious existence. That he did love her was supposed to be so obvious.

Trailing to the bathroom, locking door, sitting on the toilet seat, numbly staring at nude, shaking hands- useless actions in the gloomy evening. Loathing herself is bound to surface shortly, disgust at her silly need to get what she wants (what is that? she is unsure as of yet), hatred of the man she adores. She hears his perplexed impatience grow through the door, then a final grunt, and a slam of wood against wood.

He is gone.

She is left behind.

Shame at seeing herself on the next day, amidst staring eyes, inquisitive glances, and all the while, his gaze on her. This last thing she hopes for, yet she fears the probable: that he will not even want to talk to her again. He had her, once more, and it seems that in his eyes she's not good for anything else: work and sex. A slave at work, a slave at home.

She hates her body, so perfect and lithe, slim and feline, all the softness and femininity that must have enticed him to want to fuck her. Nothing more. He did not _see_ her, and did not even care.

A sad reflection of her own lifts its gaze in the mirror and stares back at her. Beauty is merely an illusion. Beyond all that, she feels repellently ugly, and everything around her changes colours and shapes and looks. Softness becomes angularity, and certainty, fear. She had succumbed to her physical needs, her greedy appetite, because she thought she could lure him with her body and keep him. That she failed seems a welcomed tragedy: she wants to feel misery crawl up in her veins, inducing self-loathing and loneliness. Knowing unconsciously that she deserved all the suffering.

Her clock (her clock? nothing is hers anymore) strikes. Time? Unknown. Unwanted. A persistent tingling in her legs tells her she had been sitting there for quite a while.

But going back to the living-room would mean coming face to face with the void he left behind.

The void that is herself.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Ok, I am at a point where the ending is already written. I just have to come up with the stuff in between. Won't be long, so bear with me…**

CHAPTER 15

Evening finds her in the kitchen filled with soft light, cooking her own dinner. Simple vegetable stuff, nothing heavy or sophisticated. Automatic nod toward the microwave when that stops with a loud _drrrring_. She wipes her hand in her apron. Her hair tied in a tight pony-tail. Her posture, as usual, proud, yet as far of what one might call opportunistic as it can be. Only her merest gestures betray something unfitting the tiny speck of humankind called Alison Cameron. Her face, flawless and bearing the marks of long, insomniac weeks, is turned over the dish, and her senses concentrate on the most mundane issue she could come up with: eating.

As she sits down to consume her frugal meal without an appetite, she remembers how he enjoys his own meals, munching away like a ten-year old kid, really giving it all, appeasing the angry gods of hunger. A smile creeps onto her face as she pushes the plate aside. Again, like on the numerous evenings that have ensued that certain one, she succumbs to her instincts that tell her, well, what she has known for two years.

She cannot be taken up with anything other than him. Work, work is good. Her mind focuses on sickness and the different cures to what ends a human life. She considers it a charitable deed to save people, and it is only when she sees someone get better that she feels lighter. Apart from that, she is lead, dark, heavy, trailing with difficulty on the mucuous tracks of time. In fact, she feels time is so slow that she actually traveled back to her fifth grade. Big, bulky boy, whatshisname, whatever, feared by everyone in class, secretly adored by tiny, freckled Alison. He bullies her like everybody else. Yet her gigantic eyes don't fill with tears, but with adamant admiration, growing every day. She frowns, remembering those days… She wonders whatever happened to that boy. Aside from being reincarnated as Gregory House. Sighing, she leans back to her couch. She is at a point where accepting her own actions is out of the question. Loving him would be wrong. Hating him would kill her. Giving him up would steal life from her. Punishing him, as shown ever since he had left her apartment, would not work.

She had contemplated his words, oh how many times, struggling to make them sound ok. So what if he wanted her that badly? So what if he finds her attractive? She keeps thinking of herself as someone else, a stranger who seeks advice on those ridiculous help lines, opening herself up to the whole world, wallowing in pain and enjoying all the attention she can muster. After all, what could be better than collective empathy? She settles comfily against the soft fabric and watches herself. What would she advise, were she not herself?

Boredom slowly seeps through the curtains of the night. The only place she had rather be in, she can't even think about. He is shunning her, avoiding her, dodging her, like in fifth grade. Only an occasional glare and a frown tells her that he registers her physical presence. His mouth only spits up orders and medical queries. Not even the familiar, and, funnily enough, sadly missed nasty remarks alleviate her solitude when she is next to him.

She had been a good fuck, that's all. Nothing more. Time to face it, lass.

……………………….

She had been his glimmer of light, his ray of warmth, his sunny countenance, his softness of touch and his soulful contentment. The drink goes down and scorches his throat, but he welcomes the feeling. His guts are more and more familiar with the burning of alcohol; in fact, he misses his usual two or three drinks a night, if he drops in exhausted and is too lazy to limp down to the shop at the corner and buy the stuff. In his lucid moments, such as this one, he starts realizing that he is becoming an alcoholic. It all started with a drink on that fateful evening. And then, another. And then, a third one. By the fifth one his left leg didn't hold him any longer, so he fell onto the carpet and hummed himself to sleep.

The next day, a colossal hangover kept him from bugging everyone at work. He avoided people as much as he could, and he tried to stay away from the one person that had become his obsession. Without success. Their meeting was one gargantuan embarrassment, she cold as ice, he terribly clumsy, not knowing what to do or not to do. They ended up not saying a word to each other for days. By the time she was strong enough to lift her eyes up to meet his, he had pulled himself together and was as impassable as on his worst days, only more so. She saw it fit to keep silent. He saw it fit to act like a jerk.

Ahh, drink… soothing, balmy, intoxicating… heh… funny, funny me… he gurgled into his empty glass. His phone lay next to his hand, if he extended his fingers a little, his index touched the metallic cover. He could call her, of course. The possibility floated in the room like the sweet scent of summer rain, and he floated with it, knowing that he could fall back on it anytime. Lift, press, wait, talk. Simple gestures. Would change so much.

But right now he doesn't need to do anything at all. Just lying there is bliss, with the room turning and the objects flying around like crazy. He is away, away from what he had been… some time before. Memories are not clearly stacked up like they used to be; his head is a jungle in which he gets lost each time he tries to dwell on anything too much. Remembering is the worst. Dragging out the drawers of his mind, full of stuff he had been trying to get rid of for good.

Oh, how divine she felt… desire flashes in, he sees her nipples, her face, his manhood craves to be inside her once more. He fights against it, the last speck of decency in him yelling how wrong it all is, but then he relinquishes the doubt, and his hand starts moving up and down inside his pants. Release is quick, languid. His breathing is hardly quickened, his eyes search for confirmation in the dark room. He had done it. Again.

He feels pathetic. He knows he is becoming everything he despises in people: whiny, helpless, insincere. The changes occurring within him are beyond his reach, despite his belief that he is capable of anything. He is slowly losing it, losing it all. And why? Because he feels powerless against… against a young, beautiful, strong, gentle woman. As he plays the thought in his mind, he starts laughing at himself in the darkness. Wilson was so right: he has it, he has it bad. He is up to his neck in slime, or whatever they call it… love or something. He knows he should get out, wash it all off, get back to what he was. But funny thing is, as he tries to flip himself over, and fails, he realizes he loves the warmth of it, the fuzziness of the emotional bliss and pain combined, the sweet suffering, the hurtful anticipation of that… that something, which comes eventually. What is it? He racks his brain in vain. He feels a heavy drowsiness weigh down on his whole body, and he abandons himself to it. Sleep, merciful sleep comes, and as he drops off, all his limbs tingling with alcohol and dreaming, he pulls his arm under his head and imagines it is her slender body.


	16. Chapter 16

The case had been solved. It was so insignificant that he forgets all the details already. Sitting at his desk, feet propped up, gameboy in his hand, he spends his time unwillingly. Boredom is not the correct state of mind he is in; it is more like something in between carelessness and a quaint sort of longing to be with another human being. His brain doesn't allow for as generalised versions of it as _lonely_; admitting it is beyond his powers. He merely sits there, waiting for the minutes to roll by, slowly ticking away on the clock hanging above him.

He has a bottle of Scotch in his desk right now. He is severely tempted to pull the drawer and snatch the bottle. Relieving himself of the heavy pain and craving for her has made him ingenuous; a Vicodin or two in the morning, then two glasses of Scotch, washed down by some strong neutraliser, so that no one will notice. He is sure no one will; when he drinks, he hardly ever changes in posture or mental condition. He is as snappy and sarcastic as always. What he ignores is that the level of his sarcasm has risen to being almost unbearable for those working with him.

From the corner of his eye he sees her enter the conference room. Through the glass walls of his office her form is jagged and broken, a slowly moving shape, lingering at the table, then walking over to the coffee machine. His eyes follow her like a hunter, instantly smelling the perfect scent of strong coffee only she is able to concoct at any time of the day. He craves her coffee, but has no bravery left inside him to walk in and ask it from her. It is like his powers have grown over everyone else, but when it comes to her, nothing left of them. He hardly every dares address her directly anymore, and she doesn't help him in the least. He is fully aware that she hates him bitterly, and after weeks and weeks of guessing and trying, he has given up searching to find out what he did wrong. He is suspended half-way between hopelessness and anger, and he can shift either way, depending on circumstance or the person nearest him.

She stands at the coffee maker, her back towards his office. Her hand is on his cup, her fingers grabbing it for dear life, her knuckles white in the endeavour to keep herself from walking over to him and handing him the cup. She knows he is watching her, and her back is burning under his stare, despite the glass wall and her clothes. She is sure she would feel his eyes glaring from a mile's distance. Silence wraps everything up as she stands there, destitute, sick of the unsaid words and unasked questions that are welling up in her. She hopes he is just as sick of it all. That's her one consolation, hoping that he is miserable too. Yet, stolen glances at him when he is not watching tell her that he is doing just fine. He probably found someone else to fuck. The last thing he needs is an overly sensitive person to remind him of how rough he is. She winces at the thought that he might have been right, that she doesn't love him after all. But coffee wakes her up, so she takes a sip from his cup, holding it with both hands, enjoying the warmth of it radiate through her hands and wrists into her arms, crawling up to her heart. She needs warmth, and the past few weeks have made her so cold she is almost constantly shivering.

-Do me a favour. Give me back my cup.

She turns around. These are the first words spoken to her directly ever since that hateful evening. He is standing in the doorway, leaning on his cane, looking dishevelled and a little unstable. She tries to respond before she grows too familiar with his sight. Because then she would act like before, and she can't have that now.

-You haven't used it for weeks. I thought you didn't like it any more.

He glares at her, his eyes gigantic pools of blue steel, ready to boil over and scorch her dead. She keeps her head up, her palms still covering the cup, a sense of victory starting to form in her rejocing veins, properly warmed by now.

-And the mail in my box has become unmanageable. I will have to file in a complaint if you don't do your job properly.

She raises an eyebrow, wondering if she should feel annoyed or blissful. His voice is neither sarcastic, nor as demanding as it used to be. In fact, she is dumbfounded at his new behaviour. Can it be he is truly angry at her?

-Just what is my job, if I may ask?

She has placed the cup down, and takes a step further. He is taken aback by her approach, but he stays rooted. The mere fact that they are interacting makes him ridiculously happy, and he knows how pathetic he is according to his own standards, but he just doesn't give a damn.

-You work for me. You do as I please –he growls, and she feels a sudden twinge of mad desire in her belly. Her eyelids flutter and her lips part without her knowledge. He sees her breathing become faster, and instantly, a wave of warmth trickles through him from head to toe.

She sees him slightly move in the doorway, and she knows, with a hundred percent certitude, just what he is thinking about. He is the personification of desire, and she has to gather all her strength to keep herself put. She cannot, just cannot succumb to her body's wishes, let alone _his,_ each time she recalls him making love to her. A relationship based on physical need is not a lasting one, she knows. The last thing she wants is wild, gratuitous sex every week or so that might gratify his want, but not hers.

-No –she says, stepping closer. And closer. She is standing right under his glaring eyes, she smells his scent, his warmth, and something faintly sour. She stops analizing, she has to, or she will be lost again.

-I am not a hooker, House. I cannot let you _fuck_ me every time you want. –She winces at the word, her stomach turns, but she continues. –I have feelings for you that would live on if you were impotent.

She touches his arms, she slides his hands up to his shoulders, to his face. She takes his head in her hands, she holds him delicately. Her eyes are so full of her liquid pain that they look twice as large, and despite himself, he feels tears well up in his eyes too.

-I love you, Gregory House –she whispers, before she tenderly kisses him. Her lips are soft and soothing; he feels closer than ever to opening up to her and discarding the familiar prickliness, and it scares the hell out of him- so he drops his cane and pulls her to him. His tongue is aggressively claiming her mouth, and she just doesn't enjoy the kiss anymore. She also feels his erection pushing between her legs, and she suddenly feels sick. She can't breathe as his mouth covers her lips and his tongue roams in search for hers. She is struggling to push him away, but he is worlds stronger and his arms are holding her tight. One hand has shifted to her bottom, and she feels his fingers over her buttocks, his index sliding deftly between them. The bulging at her front is so large that is hurts her, and she just needs to get out of it all before she loses control to him, again, so she takes his lower lip between her teeth and bites on it.

He lets out a painful moan and stares at her unbelievingly.

-You bastard –she says, her tears smeared across her face from his wild kiss. –You just can't deal with me, can you? A good fuck once in a while is acceptable. But commitment, knowing that I actually _care_, would kill you. Or so you think… you pathetic lonely son of a bitch.

She hisses the last words, as new tears form in the corner of her eye. She pushes him away and steps back. He sees her pain, he sees her disgust, and he is choking under the weight of what he doesn't want to utter, but feels he has to, or he will lose her forever.

-I can't… I… -he stutters, and leans against the doorway to regain his balance. –I need time.

-Time to think when it's best for you, right? –she asks, her eyebrows lifting, her lips turning downwards. –I'm sorry, House. I can't do this.

She turns to leave the room, when his voice floats towards her from somewhere very far.

-Cameron.

She doesn't even stop, as she spurts out the words.

-Go to hell.

And she is gone. He doesn't need to look after her, he knows she is gone from the temperature of the room that has dropped considerably. He feels it in his hands, groping for something to hold on to. He feels it in his leg, suddenly yelling with pain.

Most of all, he feels it inside, the silent emptiness weighing down on him like an endless curtain of leaden ice.

He drops down to a chair.

He stares ahead.

He hears that music again, faint, hardly audible.

And he knows.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Well, thank you all so much for the lovely reviews! I did enjoy writing for you guys! I could have done much much better, but with every update I kept rushing, first because I know what it feels like, waiting for a new chapter (am doing it every day! It is hell!), and second, because I am impatient with my stories. They come like an impulse, and if I sit on them too long, and re-write and think about them, they lose the fire. So, for the sake of this fire, I keep sacrificing better writing. I hope you still enjoyed the story! No, not the last chapter yet. Last but one. _

CHAPTER 17

Being alone is what worked easiest for him, and he knew it. He was not good at relationships; the simplest forms of communicating with another human being was something he had not been taught, and it was sarcasm that generally came to his help. The only person he could tolerate for a longer time was Wilson; but, Wilson did not have slender wrists and a gentle touch that seemed to emerge from his memories at odd moments. He was not there to keep reminding House that life can be something more than Vicodin and booze and solitary piano playing on gloomy evenings. He was not there to hand him his coffee and sort his mail without his asking, he was not there to carry out any bizarre order he might come up with in the middle of the night. It was all her, her that he kept hurting over and over again. Trying to own her in his sick ways. Possessing her body so that maybe, just maybe, her soul will be chained to him. He should have known better.

Pondering on things past was another thing he was not good at. Dragging the heavy burden of a guilty conscience for hours and hours, eventually realizing what an idiot he had been, was just not his thing. Remorse was too trite and weak for him to acknowledge, so whenever anything close to repentance threatened to overcome him, he resorted to what he knew would help: drinking, pills, soaps, music.

But now music was a threat too. He knew he would never forget that song, and the words that came like the unblocking of his soul. He had always been scared to let go, and let another human being approach him emotionally. Stacey and Wilson had been the exceptions, and out of those two, only one had turned out to be a lasting relationship. All the changes that were taking hold of his life made him sick- so how come he was craving for change on this warm summer afternoon, all filled to the brim with warmth and sunshine and something new, something he couldn't define, but knew it was there, like a new spice in an already perfect cake, adding exquisite taste to it?

Walking to the entrance door he heard his heartbeat in his ears, drumming like crazy, deafening his senses, almost causing him to gasp with… joy? No, joyous was something he had not been for a long time. Perhaps not ever. But something close to it. Serenity. Yes, he definitely felt serene and… mellow, as he opened the door and stepped out into the sun setting, the rays of ripe orange sunlight and his heartbeat reverberating in the space and time continuum he was the center of. He stood in the sunlight, soaking up the ocean of warmth and unexpected hopefulness. He took a few small steps without any sense of direction, not looking where he was. He just felt he belonged there and nowhere else. In a spot where anything can happen.

As he opened his eyes and looked up he saw her stepping out. Clad in her beautiful dove-grey coat that enhanced her perfect shape, her hair falling down like a velvety river, her otherwise open glance now very dark and so severe. He wondered if he did that to her, and he just couldn't help thinking what an ass he was, what an ass he had been ever since he had talked himself into rejecting her over and over again. What the hell could he have wanted to prove? That he was the stronger one? That her feelings for him weren't real? Who was he trying to protect? And what right had he to tell her what to do or not to do?

She saw him the moment she set her foot on the pavement, on the way to her car, parked outside the hospital for a change. He was rooted in the middle of a patch of sunlight, weirdly enough covering only part of the space outside the building. She looked up to the sky to find the culprits, but there were no clouds at all. She looked back at him, and she saw his eyes fixed on her. Those big blue eyes that had mesmerized her for what seemed like an eternity to her did not leave her face, and she struggled to understand what they were telling her.

How could she feel anything but love when it came to Gregory House? All his faults that would have driven nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a thousand she had long acknowledged, accepted, and stepped over. She knew that just as beauty most often shrouds ugliness, beneath roughness there is always tenderness to be found, and she had seen his eyes when he was talking to a dying patient, or his hands when fighting to save someone's life. She knew that _I need time_ was his way of saying _I care, and I want to learn how to show it_.

She needed him to make her complete; he was everything she ever wanted. Which realization seemed strange, to say the least, when she took into consideration just what she was bargaining for: almost middle-aged guy, with one good leg, a very damaged emotional life, obstinate, rude, completely neglecting every social expectation thrown at him, and for whom love might not even exist. How on earth could a normal person behave like he did, not only to her, but to everyone else around him?

Then again, how could a normal person make her feel what she felt? That endless, unexplainable sense of belonging and gratitude when he was close to her, yes, when he acted like a jerk and pushed her to the limits of her tolerance almost every time they met? He had taught her so much, and she was still learning. Learning to forgive, to accept what she was given, to try and give her love to where it was most needed. Saving patients was alright, but they weren't the ones who needed her care most.

She stepped closer to him to see his eyes better, to dive deep in their waters and resurface, reborn, all new, all eager to start afresh, with the world, with herself, and with him.

He stood there motionless, enjoying the sun caressing his cheek and her gaze holding his. He knew that a mere few steps would lead him right next to her, and he could hold her again. He was not sure he would behave like she expected him to; he wasn't sure she expected him to do anything, and that was the best part. He felt free.

He was so deaf and blind to the rest of the universe that he never heard the car-tyre screech only a couple of meters from where he stood. In fact, he never noticed he was standing in the middle of the road.

She heard the car first, then saw it. She was not sure of its colour; the sense of fear covered her from head to toe, and she was frozen for what seemed to be forever. Her brain stopped processing new information, and she only had time to think of what it would have been like, loved by him. Then her instinct pushed her across the road, to where he stood. She managed to reach him, and touch him, and hold his hand.

Even in that moment of unearthly fear, he saw gentle love in her eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: I postponed this last chapter for a while now, but I couldn't postpone it any longer. I had to end this, so that I have peace and move along. It was supposed to be something different, but I realized this was the only acceptable ending for me. Sorry to cause disappointment, but, here it goes… Thanks for reading and for all the reviews! Even the bad ones taught me good stuff. So, enjoy this last bit!_

There is a moment of unmistakable revelation in everyone's life, a moment when time, that filthy robber of bliss and pain stands rooted and will not budge until all the horrible decisions made and all the opportunities not grabbed are recalled from the deep bundles of memory. Density of regret and shrieking misery will constitute the matter from which the next droplet of time will slowly, painfully be born, loud dissatisfaction on its lips. House felt the moment transfix him and freeze his body in that position, his arm icy cold under her warm and tiny hand. Her eyes were grand ovals of chocolate warmth, her smell found its way into his nostrils, up to his brain, intoxicating him, making him forget where he was and what he was doing.

She squeezed his arm and focused on him with her whole might, her muscles tense with concentration, drinking his face in for what she knew would be the last time. His skin was callous and the stubble at least four days old, but his eyes were full of positive energy, something she had not seen in him for a mighty long time. His lips were pressed together but they were on the verge of curling up into a timid smile. He looked relaxed and she coaxed herself into believing that in that second, the last time she would ever see him, he was happy.

The moment passed as quickly as a raindrop fell unnoticed onto her hand which was tightly pressed to his strong wrist. Just before it was too late, she gathered all the physical power she never knew she had within herself and she applied it on the man standing next to her.

House felt a strong push and he fell on his side. Before he could wonder at her strength he heard a car screech on the pavement, a thud, noises. Commotion. Yelling. Next thing he knew, he was pulling himself together and trying to get back onto his feet. White sports car. Open door. Blonde holding her head in agony. Bald guy holding a mobile, stooping in front of his car to

to what seemed to be

House squinted, though he was a mere few feet away from the tiny, limp human shape on the ground. He pushed the yelling idiot aside and knelt down despite the hideous pain which threatened to burst through his muscles. His head felt funny and he knew he had a concussion, dizziness hampering his every move, detaining his medical thoughts and making him unable to make sharp, precise diagnostical decisions.

He did not have to turn her over. She was lying on her back. Her beautiful hair all over her face. As his hand reached out to brush the hair away he noticed the pool of blood forming next to her tiny skull. It grew so fast that he could do nothing but watch in morbid fascination as the shiny lake of crimson changed its shape and reached out liquid tendrils to encircle Cameron's head, then shoulders. The colour of blood was so striking on the grey concrete, so beautiful. Warmth on the coldness of what seemed to symbolise the end of time.

He tried to stop shuddering and to ignore the noises attacking him from all angles. His hand rested on her warm cheek, his index slowly, unwillingly searching the sign meant to say she was unharmed. He couldn't find it.

The human mind plays tricks on us more often than we think. The doctor in him knew what the unchangable conclusion was, yet he was far from ascertaining the truth. He felt calm and light-headed, he knew something was going to, something _had to_ change still.

But then it all stopped short and he knew.

She was gone.

As he looked up he saw Wilson and some others rush towards them from the building. He heard nothing they were saying, he knew Wilson was there to help but also that he was too late.

His glance fell on her once more. Her eyes were closed, yet he could still feel her warm look on his face. He had felt that look, the look she had preserved for him, he knew now, on endless occasions, and he was stupid enough to miss, or ignore it.

_that's all I wanted, something special something sacred in your eyes for just one moment_ the words came crashing from nowhere, loud and clear, enhancing the pain that was throbbing in his whole body-

He heard his heart beat faster and faster as the realization dawned on him that something was over, there was nothing that could change what just happened, and nothing could change the way she felt for him. It would linger forever, engraved into his brain cells, aching and unflinching.

He also remembered Cuddy's words he had not taken seriously back then. But now as he sat there, isolated from the whole world, he knew she was so right. No other woman would ever be able to tolerate him.

Tears flooded his eyes and he shed them for her perfect beauty, fragile in death but so strong in life. He shed them for the greyish-white light that seemed to cover the whole day, giving it an ephemeral mist that wonderfully worked like a balm to his senses. But most of all, he shed them for the person he knew not, the human entity that was born in that terrible moment of finiteness, the man he dreaded, yet blissfully embraced.

(the end)


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